


Mild Espionage and Champagne

by Mem_Again



Category: Milo Murphy's Law
Genre: ...It would be nice though?, And so I decided screw it! Post them all!, F/M, Or y'know don't I don't control your lives, They may be garbage but they're my garbage and it may be my last chance to make people look at them!, This is the first of several miscellaneous fics I was never going to bother posting, so look
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 21:23:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12897117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mem_Again/pseuds/Mem_Again
Summary: Brick was taking too long. She had enough faith in his abilities to know he wasn’t in trouble, he was just a perfectionist. Next time Savannah was insisting on doing the complicated work, and HE could babysit while being baffled byVinnie  #$@%!&* Dakota of all people.Savannah runs into an unexpected acquaintance while working a gala.





	Mild Espionage and Champagne

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, I'm not exactly proud of this one, but I don't know if I'll get a chance to post anything better if we lose Net Neutrality so I'm just posting everything I've got. Might as well, eh?

The ambassador’s nephew had been pretending not to stare at her for over an hour. Savannah made as if to take a sip of champagne, then appeared to think better of it, bringing the glass back down. From yards away, the man’s winning smile grew fixed.

The ambassador’s new wife had airily introduced them earlier in the evening before disappearing over to the bar, where she had remained since. There was a growing tower of empty glasses accompanying her.

Savannah’s main objective that evening had been to incapacitate one Alexander Luis Medina, up and coming playwright and future author of the worst play ever written, while Brick went to the man’s apartment and carefully arranged Medina’s belongings into a chain reaction that would make Rube Goldberg weep with appreciation. It would be triggered when Medina entered his apartment early tomorrow morning and it would end with the nearly finished manuscript disintegrating before his very eyes, preventing thousands of people from being hospitalized due to sheer boredom. Cruel, but necessary.

It was not a challenging task and it would have left Savannah ample time to get acquainted with the ambassador’s admittedly attractive golden haired relative- (”Brent,” he’d introduced himself, flashing very white teeth)- but any desire to do so had vanished immediately after he’d pressed an overly presumptuous, altogether-too-long kiss to her hand and murmured a pick up line in badly accented Japanese, followed by that same self-assured smile.

Brent had been given a chance at a first impression. Choosing to waste it had been entirely his decision. Extracting her hand coldly from his embrace, Savannah had left to go do her job.

She knew four hundred and thirty eight ways to kill a man in under a minute and using any one of them would have made things a lot simpler- but in at least one timeline Medina had written a stage play about a human and an alien going on a journey of self-reflection and dog theft across the galaxy that had widely been considered an international treasure, so she was required to let him live. After a moment of brief internal debate, Savannah had gone for the next best thing and gotten Medina incredibly drunk. He was still at the bar, surrounded by shot glasses, and had befriended the ambassador’s wife. He was currently teaching her a song in Spanish about how a heroic young rogue had avenged the common people against the greedy Patrón by stealing his pigs. 

So that was taken care of. But until Brick was ready, she couldn’t go anywhere.

She took a minuscule sip of champagne and watched as Brent clutched the two flutes he was holding even harder. Any more and he’d end up cracking the stems.

He hadn’t taken the hint. Or perhaps he had and simply ignored it? Regardless of what was going on in his empty blonde head, gentleman- or people who considered themselves gentlemen, anyway- operated under a certain code. One didn’t just approach a lady on a whim, one waited until she was in distress of some kind (Like a lack of champagne) before approaching with a solution, therefore ensuring she HAD to talk to you.

But before Brent could do that, Savannah had to run out of champagne.

“Can I have the next dance?” a voice asked by her shoulder.

“I’m afraid my dance card’s full for the night.” Savannah didn’t bother looking away from Medina. The ambassador’s wife was now trying to teach him the charleston. 

“Fair enough.” the voice acquiesced agreeably. There was a muffled thump and Savannah gathered that the stranger, still next to her, had allowed himself to fall back against the wall. 

Despite enough alcohol in his system to give a lesser creature a hangover for over a year, Medina had figured out the charleston. Now the ambassador’s wife was getting a lesson on the samba.

“I like what you did with your hair, by the way. I’ve never seen you wear it up. It looks good.”

_That_ made Savannah turn around.

The man was short, enough so that she suspected she would have been taller than him with or without her boots. He had a mass of curly brown hair that he didn’t seem to have bothered to try and fight, leaving it as was for the evening. A pair of glasses poked out of the top pocket of his suit jacket. He was currently engaged in eating a decorative crab cake from a tiny plate piled with more hors d’oeuvres than she suspected it had come with naturally and looked up as he felt her gaze on him, blinking mismatched eyes. “Something on my face?”

“Do I know you?” she said finally.

The man’s expression went from perplexed to taken aback. “Savannah, it’s me! Y’know…” He pulled something from his chest pocket, and revealed a pair of cheap gold sunglasses.

Familiar cheap gold sunglasses.

Savannah’s mind went blank.

_“Dakota?”_ she asked in disbelief. The man gave a slight grin, and his identity was suddenly confirmed. 

“C’mon, I don’t look that different, do I?”

He did, and yet somehow he didn’t. She had never been able to picture him wearing anything other than that ridiculous tracksuit, and yet there he was in an actual suit. It seemed reasonable that she hadn’t recognized him. He looked like every other well dressed man in the room. He could have been anyone.  
But the hair was the same. The casual leaning on walls, regardless of where he was, that was the same. The smile, that, _that_ was definitely the same. In any other situation she would have recognized him, but dressed up he looked less like a slacker coworker and more like a relatively successful writer that had never completely adjusted his mindset to his new lifestyle.

Another woman might have called it charming.

Savannah hastily stomped on _that_ particular thought.  
“No.” she said flatly, and turned back to Medina, who had at last exhausted himself and was bowing to a small audience that had congregated around him during his dance with the ambassador’s wife. The woman curtsied beautifully and then abruptly sat down on the floor.

Brick was taking too long. She had enough faith in his abilities to know he wasn’t in trouble, he was just a perfectionist. Next time Savannah was insisting on doing the complicated work, and HE could babysit while being baffled by _Vinnie #$@%! &* Dakota_ of all people.

She gave a start, realizing she had taken her eyes off Brent for too long. He was carefully making his way over from several yards away, angling through people and still holding the champagne glasses. The gentlemen’s code required all gentlemen to make a point of asking any man with the misfortune to stand too near the gentleman’s intended target if he was bothering her. Gallant. 

The band started up again. Deciding Medina wasn’t going anywhere, Savannah made a split second decision.

“Asking me for the next dance implies you know how.”

“Hm?” Dakota looked up from the last of his hors d’ oeuvres. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Dancing. Do you actually know how to dance?”

He blinked. “Sure.”

“I mean properly.”

“Well, I figured. Is this like, for the sake of conversation or-”

“Can you dance to that?” Savannah interrupted impatiently, gesturing in the general direction of the band. After a moment of surprise, Dakota grinned.

“Actually, yeah. As a matter of fact, I do know how to waltz.”

“Then yes,” Savannah threw back the last of her champagne, grabbed Dakota’s wrist, and breezed past Brent to the dance floor. “You may have this dance.”

**Author's Note:**

> Have we all just kind of collectively decided that Dakota has heterochromia? I feel like we have.


End file.
